Spiderman Part 2
Me: Go on then. I doubt I have but let’s get this over with. What is a Spiderman?
I had to ask.
To recap.
I have foolishly entered into a conversation with a man ten years my junior. Which one should never do; it’s ultimately depressing. But for some reason I felt compelled to match his absurdity, even in the knowledge that the idiocy of youth will eventually defeat me. I can’t win. I watch Newsnight and enjoy Radio 2 for fucks sake. I know I’m dead in the water as I look at his goofy grin and his young eyes sparkling with delight.
God help me he makes me think of my son. My nearly- three year old son who experiences many mundane things as if they are small miracles.
Thug: Aye. Reet thun. Ya knaw when you’re whackin’ off like?
Me: [sigh] I suppose.
Thug: Aaaaye ye dae like! Ah can tell.
Me: Can we just do this?
He’s virtually dancing with delight. Again I reminded of a small child. Albeit one slightly simpler than my son.
Thug: Aye alreet Grandad. Ah knaw yuz is hankerin after a Worther’s Original so's Ah'll be quick. So you spunk it all oot reet, and you’re wonderin’ what ta dae wi’ it?
Me: OK then.
In many ways I admire his delight at the new-found wonders of the world. He lives in a constant state of excitement akin to a fourteen-year-old who has found a copy of Razzle in the bushes on his way home from school.
Thug: Reet then, so ya gans up to your lass, and flick your wrist and fling a fistful of spidey-web reet in her face and ya gans ‘Spiderman! Spidermaaan!’
Me: Right.
I am now no longer thinking about my son, except to hope that he never grows up. At least not into this.
What I am doing is trying to remember my early twenties, and the quiet nights in I had with my lady friend at the time. Oddly, Thug’s new-found past-time had never occurred to me as an effective way of spending the evenings. And if it had, I’m not sure how welcome it would have been. How times change.
Me: OK then. I’ve got some work to d-
Thug: Have ye hurd me impression of The Claw off of Inspector Gadget?
Me: No. Go away now.
Thug: Do ya knaw it’s true black people can’t swim? Their bones are too dense or summat?
Me: Not as dense as you. Fuck off.
I’m left in silence for a while. I do some work and try not to worry too much about the future of civilization. From the other side of the office I hear:
Thug: Ah divn’t knaw wits up with that Tired like. He’s a reet grumpy cunt at the minute.
I had to ask.
To recap.
I have foolishly entered into a conversation with a man ten years my junior. Which one should never do; it’s ultimately depressing. But for some reason I felt compelled to match his absurdity, even in the knowledge that the idiocy of youth will eventually defeat me. I can’t win. I watch Newsnight and enjoy Radio 2 for fucks sake. I know I’m dead in the water as I look at his goofy grin and his young eyes sparkling with delight.
God help me he makes me think of my son. My nearly- three year old son who experiences many mundane things as if they are small miracles.
Thug: Aye. Reet thun. Ya knaw when you’re whackin’ off like?
Me: [sigh] I suppose.
Thug: Aaaaye ye dae like! Ah can tell.
Me: Can we just do this?
He’s virtually dancing with delight. Again I reminded of a small child. Albeit one slightly simpler than my son.
Thug: Aye alreet Grandad. Ah knaw yuz is hankerin after a Worther’s Original so's Ah'll be quick. So you spunk it all oot reet, and you’re wonderin’ what ta dae wi’ it?
Me: OK then.
In many ways I admire his delight at the new-found wonders of the world. He lives in a constant state of excitement akin to a fourteen-year-old who has found a copy of Razzle in the bushes on his way home from school.
Thug: Reet then, so ya gans up to your lass, and flick your wrist and fling a fistful of spidey-web reet in her face and ya gans ‘Spiderman! Spidermaaan!’
Me: Right.
I am now no longer thinking about my son, except to hope that he never grows up. At least not into this.
What I am doing is trying to remember my early twenties, and the quiet nights in I had with my lady friend at the time. Oddly, Thug’s new-found past-time had never occurred to me as an effective way of spending the evenings. And if it had, I’m not sure how welcome it would have been. How times change.
Me: OK then. I’ve got some work to d-
Thug: Have ye hurd me impression of The Claw off of Inspector Gadget?
Me: No. Go away now.
Thug: Do ya knaw it’s true black people can’t swim? Their bones are too dense or summat?
Me: Not as dense as you. Fuck off.
I’m left in silence for a while. I do some work and try not to worry too much about the future of civilization. From the other side of the office I hear:
Thug: Ah divn’t knaw wits up with that Tired like. He’s a reet grumpy cunt at the minute.
posted by Tired Dad at
10:12 pm
22 Comments:
Even with a fair command of the English language, in all its florid expansion of expression, words just fail me at this... this...
Oh fuck all!
And after flinging this in a woman's face this guy is still alive? She must be stupider than he is.
grumpy cunt
C'mon then. John the Stink. Enquiring minds need to know....
He really does need de-bollocking before he accidentally reproduces.
I mean Thug by the way, not dinners.
Too late for dinners ;)
hehehe
So, the gal is quietly doing something like, say, cooking dinner, reading a book, drinking whiskey directly from the bottle, watching the paint dry until it peels, well, anything but being involved in said whacking off, and all he thinks about it is "hey, this is the perfect opportunity to fling this stuff in her face".
What happened to the survival of the fittest?
As gross as it is, this is not a bad thing. Those little swimmers will never produce offspring, at least not like that.
This is good.
In part one you said "He has spun some kind of web around me"
Not like that I hope!
beautiful, Tired; beautiful.
He is growing on you
I would so piss in every drink he ever drank..
did i say that out loud?
Angela's comments echoe my thoughts, but what i was going to say was:
Thug seems to like to throw his seed in the face of his lady friend. A disgusting habit, but one that, at least, means none of it might meet an ovum.
Would you rather be a grumpy cunt or a daft cunt?
This is the sort of thing (and there exists a whole genre of such, e.g., hot carl, dirty sanchez, cleveland steamer) which are purely the theoretical whimsies of adolescent boys and fraternity brothers. Nobody actually DOES these things (it'd be the end of their sex lives if not their willies), they just sit around and TALK about them AS IF they'd done them. Which about sums up the sex lives as a whole.
Still disgusting though. And any female unlucky enough to be the victim of this kind of thing would kick the dumbass straight in the nuts.
i watch my little one pick up sticks and dandelions, and wonder whether there is some kind of time machine bubble i can make.
... hankering after a Worther's Original ... was fabulous too.
Ewwwwwww! If any dick did that to me, he'd lose his penis right quick. Or at least it would be injured! Severely.
As for black people not being able to swim....lololol....what does he think the folks in Jamaica and the Bahamas do? They LIVE in the water practically.
Come on, own up. The real Tired Dad stopped writing this blog several months ago and was replaced with someone rubbish wasn't he?
Thug: Sport Scientist? Media graduate? I have visions of him 'preparing a dissertation' on the back of reading football results or watching Beavis and Butthead.
So basically it's a variation of Monkeyface without the pubic hair. Meh. Give thug 5/10 from me.
Does the woman then rub her fanny batter over his face or somat?
fanny batter?
jesus christ..
does every woman in england have a huge yeast infection?
my fanny has no "batter"
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